Like flat Coke.
How frustrating it is, to sit in front of your laptop, purportedly writing in your diary, but to be held back in terms of how transparent you can be. Not being able share your happiness, your sadness, your anger, because someone might just be reading your diary. Or maybe, the ones reading would put two and two together and realise who you are? So you crack your head, digging deep into your knowledge of the English Language, however shallow that well may be, trying to write something mundane in an interesting way, or trying to mask an actual emotion or event so that it is not immediately obvious except to the extremely discerning.
You bang away on your keyboard, and then shelve away your thoughts because you don’t know if publishing these thoughts would be a good idea. Sometimes, I feel like a bottle of effervescence left on the table to fizzle out.
“Why do you hardly write about him?”
“Because I cannot.”